


A Little Heresy

by Fenhediis



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cultural Differences, Dalish Culture, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dalish Elves, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Oral Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 19:02:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4931503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenhediis/pseuds/Fenhediis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Around a Dalish fireside, old stories of youth, headstrong lust and the Dread Wolf resurface. As the night progresses, however, the tales stir up far more than simple memories. Solas and Ellana exchange cultural lessons and personal experience in the arts of pleasure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Heresy

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray back into writing fanfiction for a while! Taken a few artistic liberties with my portrayal of sexuality amongst the Dalish/Dalish culture but it's slight at best. Any and all critique, response, suggestions welcome with open arms! Ellana's appearance is completely at your discretion ;) <3 Repost from tumblr, which you can find me at @ fenhediis.tumblr.com. Happy reading!

The forest burst with laughter and song, as it had been since sundown, the crackle of multiple fires catching the lucid red sails of the aravels between the trees.

‘To the Herald!’

Wooden mugs were lifted up into the air for what was certainly not the first time that night.

Ellana laughed, rubbing her temples with embarrassment shaking her head as her friends readily joined in the chorus of adulation. She, however, knew all too well the gleeful mirth in the jibe of her distant kin. The Herald of a religion they did not believe in, a prophetess all but previously foreign to her, wearing the vallaslin of June on her face. It was a wonderful joke, and she was the gut of it. She caught the eyes of the Keeper, someone she had known since she was a child. Their clans had always been close, and both welcoming in their view of the wider world. It was a relief that she could find respite here in the middle of their travel, free to bring her companions, without judgement. Well, at least nothing past a shocked curiosity.

Life was sometimes the strangest melting pot. That was nowhere more clear than now. Her inquisition, the people who had crossed countless lands to join her cause, their cause, sitting in a Dalish camp, toasting in broken elvish and various languages. Here because of her.

Her eyes flickered, to Solas. Sat next to her, straight backed, his mouth a thin line as he pursed it quietly, his fingers clasped around a wooden mug. Their fingers had brushed quietly, silently between them as the evening had progressed. Even so, was so still, more still than she thought a person could be. Especially at a Dalish gathering of all things.

Thinking again, it was not surprising at all.

This was Solas, of course. Pointed and poised, proper. The very opposite of everything she was, in all her loud, brash passion. And yet, there was something that drew them together - a magnetism neither could explain or ignore.  

‘It has been a long time since Clan Firahel and Clan Lavellan crossed paths! You were younger when we saw you last - the last Arlathvenn was it not?. And I am sure there are some among us who are more than happy at your return…’

A roar of laughter rose like wildfire, spreading infectious as one of the younger hunters spluttered, choking on his drink.

‘Oh no, not this again hahren…it was years ago’ Ellana pleading, face in her hands as she smiled, staring into the canopy of trees above them, anything to not catch the eyes of those around her.

She was suddenly conscious of Solas beside her, and the story that was no doubt about to tumble out again in front of a fire for the umpteenth time in her life.

‘I do not know of what you speak, da’len’ The Keeper grinned into his mug, the lines that spoke of his many years creasing at his eyes, which glinted with Clan Firahel’s trademark mirth.

‘Oh dear, I do believe I detect a hint of scandal’ Dorian piped up, swirling the contents of his mug, previously declared ‘barbaric and devoid of taste’, a devilish grin spreading across his face, leaning across to look at Ellana’s burning face and endless laughter. ‘Come come Ellana, what are all these knowing glances about?’

‘I know a story when I see one.’ Varric added, shifting comfortably back into his seat, the very vision of expectation.

Ellana turned to look at Solas in exasperation. Something she couldn’t quite detect played around the edge of his mouth. She quickly knocked back at least half the contents of her mug. Creators help her.

‘What do you say, Iorin?

The young hunter received a rough and knowing bash from the shoulders of those next to him, his eyes closed in utter horror. Ellana looked at him, laughing, knowing that he very much wanted Falon’Din himself to swoop down and deliver him personally into the Beyond. She wouldn’t mind joining him, if she was honest.

‘I hope this isn’t going to diminish our Inquisitor.’ Cassandra added pointedly, her eyebrow creeping up, half in excited expectation, half in pre-emptive horror.

‘Tell the fucking story!’ Bull laughed, slamming his mug down onto the log beside him.

‘Creators…’ She began, rubbing her hand across her face, leaning over her knees. ‘At the Arlathvenn, the gathering of the clans, a good seven years ago…’

‘This is going to be good.’ Varric laughed in his sing-song tone.

‘I was seventeen summers, it was my second gathering, my first as someone who was ready to be bonded.’ Her voice cracked a little. ‘I was young, hot-blooded -’

‘Hah! Like that has changed!’

She laughed nervously at the interruption, her eyes once again flickering across to Iorin, who was ashen and probably praying for death, and Solas. The smile now readily played at the edges of his lips. It was exactly the wolfish grin she had seen in Halamshiral, when they had the misfortune of stumbling across the contents of the Empress’ bedroom.

She felt her mouth dry, settled upon swearing, and quickly knocked back another swig of the contents of her mug.

‘And stupid,’ she was quick to add, running her hands through her hair, her eyes fixated on the ground. ‘I wanted to make an impression…’

This time she waited with a knowing laugh, as the clan interrupted with cheap jokes, elbowing and shoulder slapping. When Clan Firahel laughed together, at once, like that she was amazed Corypheus himself didn’t march right toward them. It was deafening.

‘It was at the clan dance, on the first evening. Clapped my eyes upon Iorin…well the parts of him that were perhaps not so dressed. He was talking up around the fire, showing off the mark one of the Great Wolves had left on him.’

‘L-Like you were much better!’ He pointed dejectedly, but was quickly slapped down as fast as he had spoken, staring back at the floor.

‘I was…well… _I was impressed_. Decided I liked the look of him. Decided I’d…like him.’

‘Maker!’ Cassandra coughed politely, shifting her body away, but the high blush on her cheekbones suggested that not listening to the unfolding story was the very last thing on her list.

Ellana cursed silently to herself. This story would haunt her until the day she passed. Assuming she would experience the luxury of growing old.

‘I more than matched him. Showed him a few scars of my own…’

Solas shifted beside her.

‘ _Fenhedis_. It was more than that! Tell it true!’ The young hunter braved again, indignation written across his face.

‘Alright, so I teased him. I showed off marks that perhaps should have remained…hidden.’

Iron Bull slapped his thigh with a thunderous clap. Varric whistled. Cassandra choked.

Solas simply laughed lightly into his mug, as he raised it to his lips.

It did nothing to conceal his smile.

She double took in horror, double-checking that she hadn’t misheard, that she wasn’t imagining the grin playing about the edges of his lips.

‘We…talked. Then we danced.’ She continued, voice shaking, decidedly staring anywhere but the man next to her.

‘Is that what you call it?’ The Keeper boomed, throwing his head back in laughter.

‘After we danced,’ She continued pointedly, ‘We drank.  _Far too much_. We stumbled past everyone who was sleeping to find a clearing we could have to ourselves. We perhaps wandered a little too far…we were not long occupied when we heard growling.’

‘You  _didn’t_.’ Varric laughed.

‘We…did. We’d gone and lain in a den of wolves. We’d uh…awoken them. We had to run, fast, bare arses shining in the moonlight. Iorin tripped and as well as the wolves we woke up the entire clan with nothing but Mythal’s mercy to cover us and wolves snapping at our heels. Creators…’

She finished with a large intake of air, and then a larger of ale. Dorian slapping her across the back, causing her to splutter into her mug. He was positively beside himself with wicked glee. She would be hearing about this. She would be hearing about this for a long time.

‘And that’s the day the Dread Wolf caught wind of the both of them!’ The Keeper finished with a cry, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes.

A cheer went up, then a toast, and then the entirety of clan Firahel spat unceremoniously on the ground at the mention of his name. Ellana, raised her mug and did the same, spitting upon the soil in front of her, smiling afterwards. Too long had she been cut off from the rhythmic, familiar lull of life of her people.

She turned, emboldened to Solas this time, catching his eyes.  

But his face had changed entirely for the barest moment. It was quick, and it passed, but it was an expression she couldn’t quite read.

Sadness?

No, that couldn’t be it. Probably distaste, a sadness at something that was no doubt a twisted echo of some ancient elven rite that had gone over their heads. One look at her community, this tangled web of clans and rites, however, and in some moments she did not care.

‘Well she didn’t come back for more!’ Another hunter roared, slapping Iorin on the back, whose eyes had been glued shut at this point for the best part of the story. He looked nauseous, and if she had shot him through the eyes then and there he probably would have thanked her.

She shot him an apologetic look, before attending to her ale.

‘I think I’ll have to start calling you Moonshine, Herald.’ Varric chuckled.

‘Alternatively, don’t.’ Ellana pleaded.

‘Tell you what, this all reminds me of this one time in Kirkwall-’

‘Ugh.’ Cassandra interrupted with her customary disgusted objection.

By the time Iron Bull was sharing, they had gone through another three casks of the Dalish ale.

‘Someone else!’ The Keeper laughed. ‘Who else can assuage the shame of young Iorin?’

Her companions shrugged at each other, each had told their story, even Cassandra whose entire face was now entirely red.

‘Solas.’ Ellana volunteered.

There was challenge in her voice, passion. Her eyes were on his, unmoving, questioning.

He looked at her in incredulity.

‘Chuckles? Not if the beloved Fade has anything to say about it.’

‘Something from your  _long forgotten youth,_  surely? Or perhaps you’re not -’

She trailed off. Perhaps this was not the best line of questioning in front of the entire clan and her companions. Her trail of thought was also rapidly becoming a trail of spoken nonsense.

‘Actually no.  _Lihrae_.’ She said quickly, pointing to a young huntress who had been quite successfully staring at the floor as to not attract attention.

A roar of encouragement went up, and her previous suggestion was quickly forgotten.

But Solas’ gaze was still fixed on her, eyebrows furrowed, contemplation written across his face.

She could feel him prickling next to her, shifting slightly. Had she been wrong to volunteer his name? Here, of all places, amongst a Dalish clan. She could probably name a thousand preferable places he would rather be. She knew he joined the festivities out of politeness, respect for custom as a welcome guest. But she knew he was truly here at her behest. For her. It was certainly not for them.

She jolted as something slowly brushed across the edges of her thigh.

With a start, she turned to look at Solas, who was innocently sipping from the contents of his mug. His hands were nowhere near her leg.

Had she imagined?

Her eyes darted back and forth, trying to read his face, the very picture of concentration as the poor young huntress began her tale of shame. But the twitches at the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

As did the slight satisfied huff of laughter as she cursed at him under her breath, her legs shifting with the stirrings of something within her. 

* * *

The fires has died. Those who had not collapsed or passed out cold in their merriment had long since headed for their bedrolls. As had most of her companions. She had sobered up as fast as she had let it course through her blood.

Ellana had opted to lean against the base of a tree, watching. Dying embers, the sea of bodies under pelts, under the stars, the smell of Dalish ale and smoke that crackled in the night air - all of this made her nostalgic, lonely for a place she could be. The smiling faces, the vallaslin. It wasn’t Clan Lavellan, but it still felt like home - this messy, tangled web of people. For better or worse, they were some sort of family. Perhaps they all had been once, long ago.

There was a pang of homesickness that ached low in her heart. She walked away from camp quietly, to the border. Where she knew she would find the statue of the Dread Wolf that guarded their camp. She picked it out in the darkness, its stone form curled next to a tree. There were small votives beside it, sap candles, coins, beads, the odd flower. Peace offerings. Prayers.

Pleas.

She plucked a flower that sprouted beside her, and placed it quietly beside the statue of the wolf. A small prayer in elvish she dared to offer it. Pushing herself up, she sat, cross legged, on its back, the rough stone of its pelt harsh under the skin of her palms. Peering out into the great darkness, her world, in that moment was so small. So sure and still. This reminded her so much of home, before all this. She had used to do the same when she was younger; creep out of her bedroll and pelts at night to try and best the Dread Wolf, clambering up its guarding form to declare victory.

Before her keeper found her, of course, chided her, and set her to some menial task as reparation for her quiet heresy. She laughed in slight disbelief, shifting against the Dread Wolf below her and running her thumb across the mark on her left hand. She really did seem to attract the heretical.

‘I am surprised to see you still conscious.’

Ellana turned in surprise, the quiet peace broken, her heart jumping. Solas leant against the tree behind her, hands behind his back, his posture tall, composed. He commanded an air of something, his eyes watching her atop the statue of the wolf.

How long had he been watching?

Her ears burned with embarrassment, that he had found her in this private moment of all things. As if she needed to further embarrass herself in front of him that evening.

‘Forgive my manners. But I believe this a Dalish custom I am unsure of.’

There was laughter hidden in his words, although he did not let it escape, nor let it show in his face save the tiny glimmers of mirth in his eyes.

Ellana closed her eyes and winced. This evening was shaping up to be a mess.

‘Whatever it is, I’ve heard it before.  _Trust me_.’

‘I do not doubt it.’ He smiled. ‘If this evening was a measure to judge by.’

Ellana threw her hands up into the air silently in exasperation, and proof of her point.

‘I apologise. It is cruel to jest. I must ask, however. You do this with familiarity. It is…not what I expected from you. Earlier, I observed your custom at the invocation of his name, and yet?’

‘Ah, sure, that’s  _custom_. This…this isn’t. It’s just… just some fool thing I used to do when I was young.  _Besting the Dread Wolf_ , I told myself. Challenging him.’

She rubbed the back of her neck, acutely conscious of what she was saying, but lacking the will to stop.

‘But my Keeper then was old and set in her ways. She’d drag me off by the ears, swearing up and down that I would be praying to the Creators for forgiveness for the rest of my days.’

Pausing to laugh, she shifted her weight back onto her palms as she leant back, to look up at the sky.

‘But I’d still come back most nights. When she heard the tale of the Arlathvenn and the wolves…well. Then calling me a little heretic had perfect justification. She was convinced the Dread Wolf had me in his clutches. She still is you know.’

She grinned, half embarrassed and half pleased with herself.

‘Quite the rebel.’ He replied, eyebrows raised slightly and a smile of approval about his lips.

Laughter played about his voice, but his eyes were inquisitive and serious as they met hers.

‘Indulge me, for a moment, if you will. I came here to ask you. Was that a serious question?’

‘Was what a serious question?’ She asked, confused.

He walked forward, hands still behind his back, a sway to his hips that she could only describe as pure heresy drawing her eyes down where she not let them stray. He walked beside the statue of the guarding wolf, his fingers skimming across its stone.

‘At the fireside. You suggested I had a lack of experience, on my part. Or a lack of skill or, perhaps, interest.’

Ellana’s head slumped backwards gently onto the wolf, looking up at him with apology.

‘Ir abelas, it’s not how I meant it. I shouldn’t have let curiosity get the better of me. I should thank you for coming at all.’

‘Do not apologise. It is true perhaps I do lack the finer points of the… _Dalish experience_.’

Ellana cringed, but couldn’t suppress a small laugh, closing her eyes as she heard the jest in his voice _._ She cursed that she had given him the image of her running stark naked through the forests after some clumsy, youthful fumbling. Clan Firahel really did know how to bring the Inquisitor low.

‘Count yourself lucky,'She began, biting her lip to stifle the giggle that dared to bubble up from her lungs.

She turned over her shoulder, as if to check there were no others within ear shot, but she still chose to whisper the rest of the confession that was bursting within her lungs.

 _'It was awful_. ’

‘Yes, I imagine it was, what with a pack of angry wolves interrupting your proceedings.’ Solas replied, cocking his head slightly to listen.

‘Not that, with him. I was not much better, then, but creators…I thought it was brilliant at the time, but looking back…It mostly is. It’s mostly well…’

She winced with another laugh, burying her face within her palms, the tips of her ears flushed with hilarity and shame. Solas, however had gone quiet, the corners of his lips tugging upwards in quiet contemplation.

‘It’s mostly just hasty, fumbling. The men are usually the worst of it there’s not much to it save getting to the finish. I suppose you don’t have much time at gatherings, but…gods. The women are usually better, but that's not saying much.'

‘When you told me the Dalish have something worth honouring, I can only presume this was not what you meant. A memory of the old ways,  _was it not_?’

There was a smugness in his voice, a superiority and satisfaction she could not place.

Ellana looked up at swatted at him. She loved moments like this, when his sarcastic, mirthful, playful streak revealed itself. It certainly seemed in full force tonight. She supposed she had given him enough material to work with.

‘And I suppose you would know about the old ways? Do not tell me that this of all things is something our people have lost as well. The art of fucking,  _lost to the fade_.’ She joked, sweeping her arms in a wide gesture as she finished, voice low with theatrical mockery.

He snorted slightly.

‘You laugh, but yes.’

Ellana turned quickly, incredulous.

‘Gods you’re actually serious?  _What?_  What could we possibly have l-.’

She paused, the rest of her question dying on the tip of her tongue, realising her curiosity was about to best her yet again as well as the topic they were headed toward. The tips of her ears burned bright.

‘Forget I asked.’

‘If there is something you would know, I would have you ask, vhenan. Although, I am surprised, I would have presumed you quite tired of stories after tonight.’

That light and glimmering mirth finding its way into his eyes, and the rare smile he offered in only the most private, genuine moments with friends.

‘Solas.’

The tone with which she uttered his name stirred something in him. He turned from her, his hands still clasped behind his back, hips swaying as he walked to the edge and looked out into the forest.

‘Ma nuvenin.’

Something wicked stirred in his voice, a promise in the way he spoke, and a look in his eyes that intended to fulfil it. He was toying with her, she was sure of it and yet she could not detect how.

Of what she did not know, but she leant her head back onto the stone flesh of the Dread Wolf behind her, her arms around her knees as she awaited whatever story was about to be told.

‘I have walked in dreams and ancient thoughts where lovers knot in timeless reverence.’

Ellana’s breath caught in her throat. He really did mean to tell her? Her eyes followed him, her heart jolting slightly. He spoke in measured poetry, a rhythm in his voice that she was always found herself lost in.

He turned.

‘In waking, whispered sleep, where communion lasts for centuries, gentle cries that live and die behind breathless lips.’

He walked toward her now, his magic crackling at the tips of his fingers, reminiscent of the blue fire he had shown her once. Never once did he take his eyes off her, but never once did he actually reach out to touch. The distance between them was so small, and yet her body ached across what seemed an impossible distance. He was so measured. So careful and balanced, and with each line that curled across the edges of his tongue, with each sway of his hips - there was something primal in it. Something dangerous and…old.

‘A languid clash of skin and tongues, as magic melds with mind to run with mingling sweat and silent cries of painless pleasure.’

Ellana had no words. There was a weight  in this poetry of his, a beautiful, uneasy truth in the sincerity of his words.

‘In another world, there are those who set aside years to simply know another’s skin. Another hundred for your lips. Those who would set aside a millennia to know the contours of your body and the edges of your soul.’

‘Solas I-’

‘An elegance in primal need, expressed through poetry in flesh. You deserve much more than the fumbling of those who know no better.’

There was barely space for a breath between them, and yet the distance felt eternal. Her limbs felt heavy with want, on fire with a curiosity he knew how to raise in her. She wanted answers, she wanted to be guided. She wanted everything he spoke of, that he promised in the language of his body, his smile. Her body shifted in eager discomfort, a rising need within her. His hands were still clasped behind his back, smiling, the traces of his magic still crackling in the air.

Her hands pushed her forward, her lips reaching for his, her fingers reaching to pull him closer, but only found the gap between them widened.

‘Is there something you want, vhenan?’

He knew it was dangerous, to walk this line. But he could see the want in her eyes, he could feel that same want stirring with him. It had been ages beyond counting since had felt like this, to feel wanted. And watching her face  whilst he had recited long forgotten words had been-

‘Show me.’ She breathed, impatient.

He loved her for it.

Ellana curled her fingers around his necklace, pulling her to him.

The gap was bridged with a gentle ferocity.

Hands finding skin, tongues finding each other. There was no doubt in his response. He kissed her just as deeply. Long, full of intent, mouths and bodies pressed together, his hands weaving through her hair. Shifting in moonlight, finding stone for support, finding each other. Small gasps against her mouth are what he afforded himself, pausing against her skin, closing his eyes to cherish before falling victim to yet another kiss that consumed them both. They broke apart again, broken breath curling into the night air, lips connected by a damp, lucid string of want.

His eyes briefly flickered across her shoulder, past her eyes to the statue she was heading towards heresy in front of. 

‘I am not sure this is the best idea, but-’

‘Don’t you dare.’

Her fingers curled around the jawbone that hung from the rope around his neck, pulling him roughly to her. He shook his head silently, before closing his eyes and falling to the capture of her lips once more.

Now, he was truly lost.

His fingers weaved through her hair once more and tugged her head slightly back, his lips finding hers, his tongue greeting hers, his hand learn his way as he went, fingertips skimming across her skin, ever downwards, coursing the contours of her frame with an insatiable curiosity. His lips moved across her cheek, behind her ear, making pilgrimage down her throat, the hum that rose within it vibrating against his lips.

Their collision grew hotter, heavier with the way he pressed them together, the gentle ferocity of his teeth against her lips, her skin, her tongue, it was also an intensity he had long forsaken. Hands roved bodies, curious to know, desperate to hold, as if they could not explore each other fast enough. He kissed her once more before he began to trail them down her body, removing the buttons in his wake.

Ellana jumped, as magic crackled along her skin, it felt like cold fire, followed by the slick caresses of his tongue, a trail that was headed in only one direction. Fingers replaced lips as he trailed them across the vallaslin that ran down her torso. He paused for a moment, pensive, rubbing across the edge of her hip with his thumb, as if to gently remove the marks he found there. His eyes locked with hers as he instead followed their trail with his touch.

Skillful fingers plucked at knots, before pushing past them with purpose.  

She cursed with a shudder.

He was buried in her neck, biting, licking, and she could have sworn that he had paused to breathe in the scent of her. But those observations left as fast as they had come. Her knuckles were white as she clung to the statue as best she could, holding to it beneath the agonisingly lazy, slow drawn knowledge of his touch. It was precise, knowing, measured and yet he elicited every roll of her hips with an expertise she could not fathom. That same cold fire was coursing through his touch, every slow circle, every soft stroke. He leaned in to kiss her, the gentle noise of her appreciation played out against his lips, his skin. Her body was wrecked, writhing gently in the rhythm of their quiet, stolen dance.

‘I do not presume it was anything like this, with your young hunter?’ He teased, a rough, ragged edge to his voice that gave away any innocence he had hoped to feign with his question.

‘N-n-ugh.’

His fingers teased, asking permission to enter.

‘I am afraid I did not catch your answer.’

He bit down into the soft juncture of her neck and shoulder. With one swift movement, permission was granted.

‘It wasn’t l-oh Gods…. _fenhedis_ … _fen-f-fuck…fuck… **fuck.**_ ’

She could not decide on the language, but she swore in rhythm, raising her hand to her mouth to bite down on shaking knuckles. He smiled with a self-assured satisfaction, a kiss placed upon her stomach, lingering to listen to the ragged breaths, the rapid beat of her pulse, her fighting spirit still refusing to completely give over to letting the moans rise from her throat freely.

It was like nothing she had ever felt. She could hear the ring of magic in her ears, mingled with the hammering of her racing pulse against them. She felt it against her skin, inside her, she felt his touch inside her and it was driving her beyond her senses.

Catching her gaze with a knowing, burning glance, he slowly sank to his knees.

She swore again, in full knowledge of what was about to happen, moaning slightly behind determinedly closed lips, biting her tongue as his found its mark.

It was excruciating. His hands guided her against the of the statue that now supported her, gripping her hips, but not before he guided her leg over his shoulder, his fingers digging into her flesh. She was a writhing wreck, unable to control her hips which had formed a will of their own, inviting and dancing with the patterns of his tongue. Whatever magic he was using…she wanted more and yet she wanted release from it. It was a slow, drawn out cage he trapped her in, and it heightened everything she was feeling to the point she could barely remember where or what she was.

There was a tightness the very core of her, a sensation that clutched at her, shortened her breath, begging for release before it had even truly begun. All else was lost, there was only him, the rolling of her body, the cold air and bite of magic against her skin. Him against her skin.

This was nothing like she had ever felt when she had been a brash child of seventeen. This was…

‘ _Gods_ ,’ She hissed, which elicited a sharp bite from him against the inner flesh of her thigh.

This began a pattern of his sinking her teeth into her, tongue laving fresh bruises, apologising for the blood he drew to her her surface before returning to his preoccupation with her. It was precise, unpredictable. She was utterly possessed.

Her hands, shaking, wove through her own hair, palms of her hands pressed against her closed eyes as the deepest parts of her begged for mercy, for relief. Ragged and wanting, her breath came in pants which curled into the night air past her lips. On the occasion her eyes fluttered open, she was either caught in the gaze of the guarding Dread Wolf behind her, or that of the dark, focused gaze of her lover below. She was too far gone to care which.

And then he paused.

She let out a confused, muffled noise, removing her hands from her face and her hair to look up at him. That was her first mistake.

‘ _Wha- **shit**_!’

She moaned, loudly. This time, her body had betrayed her to him as he had lain in wait, her knuckles white against the rough stone of the Dread Wolf’s hide. He had known exactly where to lave his attention the minute she had looked up at him. Sparks of pleasure and the small bite of pain shocked through her.

‘There we are.’ He smiled against her skin, continuing his work.

Time became meaningless, she was lost, a wreck to the way he brought her to the edge and let her linger, breaking down her resolve as she began to beg, to rock and writhe against his tongue, his hands with complete abandon.

‘Not yet, vhenan.’ He stated, kissing his way back up her stomach to meet her lips, slick with pleasure.

Ellana’s brows furrowed at the self satisfied smile on his face, the smug superiority that so often rubbed others up the wrong way.

‘ _Dread wolf take you_ , I can’t-’ She cursed in need.

Upon him in a heartbeat, disarmed with a touch. The look of surprise that flashed through his eyes not lost on her. 

They tumbled to the grass, against the soft pelt that Solas had shed from his shoulders. She had pinned him to the floor, her hands either side of his body. Their foreheads touched, strands of hair plastered across her cheeks. He could feel the hammering of her heart through her skin, pulsing against his which was rapidly catching the pace of hers. Whatever was left of fastenings were removed, if not ripped, his hands wrenching the last of her clothes free of her body, tugging the sleeves from her arms. Grinding slightly between her legs, his open mouth pressed against the skin of her neck. Her hand snaked down between them, her fingers pushing the last of the material that separated them away roughly.  

‘If you must know,’ She breathed into his ear, great gasps of air between each laboured word, as her hands pushed the last of the material that separated them away roughly. ‘It was more like this.’

She took his bottom lip between her teeth, and snapped her hips down.

His body let slip the sound of want that had lain in wait, arching with more force than he had intended. Eyes closed, he chose only to feel, as her hips snapped against his. It was harsh, fiery, forceful, passionate and inexperienced. There was no finesse, no gentle edge to the way she plied her pleasure from him, but there was hunger, purpose and that ever insatiable fire that needed to be doused. Damp skin greeted the palms of his hands, pressed against her back as he held her, slick with sweat, soft and supple underneath old and new scars that marked her journey.

He was not much better. It had been so long, this was so different, so unbelievably hastened and raw and yet -

He swore quickly under his breath, in elvish Ellana did not understand. In that moment she did not care to understand, as his hips now betrayed him in turn.

Her quiet breaths and increasing pleas raised slightly in pitch, her stomach tightening and heart racing as she approached the edge. Small, desperate and expectant sounds that almost brought him to his own. His hands roamed to her hips softly, watching her in savoured detail as, in one last slow and deliberate thrust, she threw her head back in a silent, shuddering cry. Her eyes were screwed shut as she was swept away, a constant stream of soft, heretical curses to the Dread Wolf pouring from her lips.

The irony was certainly not lost on him.

In one final clash of skin, and lips and grasping hands it was over, their foreheads pressed together, their hearts hammering beneath their skin.

‘For all I say about the Dalish,’ He finally panted, his eyes closed, a smile in his voice and across his face. ‘I cannot fault your spirit.’

‘And I don’t believe I heard you complain about that particular Dalish custom.’ She replied, with equal tease, joining their surprised and gentle laughter in the steady wash of afterglow.

They lay like that for a while, leaning against cold stone, tangled in one another’s arms with nothing but the grass and the stars for company.

After a while, she broke the silence, rolling onto the soft of her stomach, to deliver what he could only describe as a congratulatory slap onto the flank of the statue that lay next to them. It had been an ‘unintended participant’ in their coupling, as she had put it. The comment made him close his eyes with both mirthful laughter and quiet distaste.

‘Perhaps Istimathoriel was right.’ She grinned. ‘Perhaps I really am a heretic.’

Solas shook his head slightly, a strange expression on his face that she could not quite read, lacing his fingers in hers, as he watched her, her head propped up in to the palm of her hand, legs kicking back and forth, the curves of her body mirroring those of the statue next to her. Skin flushed, still glistening, staring up at the Dread Wolf before her, vulnerable and yet empowered with her wicked, childish grin.

His.

‘Perhaps.’ He replied simply, and pressed her fingers to his lips.


End file.
